


Carrot Juice and Carrot Cake

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [73]
Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Feeding Kink, Gen, Other, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 21:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6724078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mel had stopped yelling at him about kale and the heart disease he was physically incapable of ever getting, at least. Though she did affect a disapproving look whenever he went for a second helping of cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carrot Juice and Carrot Cake

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: a fic involving feedism, namely belly-stuffing, overeating or bloating? My fandom of choice is Doctor Who, and I prefer Classic Who characters, especially Sixth's era.

“You realize this is pointless,” the Doctor said. Huffing through kilometer two on the stationary bicycle. “I’m a Time Lord.”

“A Time Lord who’s making excellent progress,” Mel said. Upside-down, in the midst of some baffling calisthenics routine.

“I’m really not.” He slowed, stopped, mopped off his brow with a bright-pink towel.

“Don’t be so down on yourself.” Jumping jacks, now.

“That’s just it, I’m not…” He sighed, stepped off the bike.  "I’m a _Time Lord,_ Mel. My body doesn’t work like yours. And I don’t share your health concerns, your hang-ups. I could be twenty feet tall and weigh two tonnes, it doesn’t make much difference. What I am, what I really am…it’s like the TARDIS, okay? The TARDIS isn’t really a Police Box. It’s not affected by inclement weather or wear and tear.“

Mel paused, arms and legs stretched out in a painful-looking position. “So why are you doing this?”

“Because you asked. Because I wanted to make you happy. Because, alright, fine, possibly there’s a bit more of me than there used to be.” He glanced down at himself, straightened his waistcoat from where it’d bunched up over his belly. “And I’m not a big fan of things happening to me without my explicit consent.”

Mel looked confused, or maybe it was just that she was currently sideways and that was throwing him off. “So you’re being nice.”

“Mmm. I try.”

“And you’re not bothered by the fact that you’ve gotten a bit, ah. Chubby. Just that you didn’t do it on purpose.”

“That about sums it up, yes.”

She landed back on the floor, fully upright. Hands on her hips. Staring at him quizzically. “Why did you wait so long to tell me?” Implied: she wasn’t a monster, she’d somehow thought he enjoyed the carrot juice and the pointless physical exercise and the so on.

The Doctor shrugged, turning the two-wheeled torture device off for what he hoped was the last time. “You know how little white lies can sort of gain a life of their own?”

 

 

Mel had stopped yelling at him about kale and the heart disease he was physically incapable of ever getting, at least. Though she did affect a disapproving look whenever he went for a second helping of cake.

Possibly he just did it out of spite. _Look at me and my abstract projection of self_. He’d gone native, he couldn’t contest that, but all it amounted to was back-up systems going on automatic. He could be a vortisaur if he wanted. Monty Clift, if he concentrated. But who wanted to concentrate? Not him. Besides, his gradually expanding projection-of-self gave him the opportunity to go hunt for another, slightly more yellow, pair of trousers.

Mel, on the other hand, forever looking sort of dejected and resigned about her beet-green smoothies and leg-warmers.

“You’re human,” he tried, mouth full of red-velvet cake. “You have things to consider.”

She sighed, looking longingly at the rapidly-diminishing cake plate.

 

 

Call it a staring contest. A duel at high noon, the church bell ringing. Enrico Morricone score, guitars twanging. A low, mournful whistle. 

They’d saved the day, as they tended to. The locals had thrown them a feast. Mel had politely eaten about half an ounce of unidentified green stuff, then backed off.

The Doctor straightened the napkin hanging off his collar, watching with undisguised joy as another plate - quail, ish, maybe-potatoes - was set down in front of him. “I would never tell you what do do. If it wasn’t a matter of immediate concern.”

“You do, though, all the time.”

“But I am humbly requesting that you, for once, enjoy yourself. Let loose. Did you know, this planet has three Michelin stars? Some of the best food in the galaxy.” He glanced up briefly, then alternated between her and the not-quail, un-potatoes. Emphasis, slightly, on the food.

She stared at him. And down at her abandoned plate of savory cube-things. And back at him. Something complicated playing across her features. And then she shrugged, and picked her fork back up.

 

 

“I’m dying,” Mel moaned. “You killed me, I’m gonna die.”

“You’re fine.” He guided her in through the TARDIS doors, again regretting his decision to make the console room standing-room-only. Deeper down, into one of those nice rooms with fireplaces and armchairs. He dropped her unceremoniously onto the closest chair.

“’M not fine.” Wheezing, a little. Clutching at her distended belly. “And it’s your fault.”

He settled himself down into a chair across from her. “I said you should enjoy yourself. Not eat the entirety of everything, everywhere, until you couldn’t move. A problem with moderation, maybe?”

“Don’t talk to me about moderation,” she said. Sparing a second from her self-pity to stare him down, a pointed glance as he undid his trousers, sighing in relief.

“Yes, well. We’ve established that I’m not you. And that’s not the point, you’ve got nothing to prove. I just meant…life is difficult and frequently painful, and the universe provides us small kindnesses, the occasional bounty, and it’s churlish of us not to accept them.”

She groaned. “I’d like to return this particular bounty. Can we do that? Go back in time and slap the cheese out of my hand?”

“I don’t think that was cheese. And no, it doesn’t work like that. But you have to admit, your apparent inability to do anything by half-measures aside, that was excellent not-cheese. Worth any adverse effects, to be sure.”

“Heurgh,” she said, then squeezed her eyes shut, curling tight around the results of her most recent bad decision. Her food-baby, should she name it? Stanley, maybe.


End file.
